by Steve Alten
The sun is now a molten ball of crimson setting spectacularly off the portside bow. Iz drains the mug of coffee, then activates the boat's sonar to check the depth of the seafloor.
Just over two thousand feet.
Rex watches Isadore root through a dry-storage compartment. Hey, Iz, check out your compass, it's doing the mambo.
I know. There's a massive crater buried beneath the seafloor, about a hundred kilometers across. We're close to the center point, which possesses a very strong magnetic field.
What are you doing?
Iz finishes attaching an underwater microphone to a large spool of fiberoptic cable. I want to listen in on what's happening below. Here, take this microphone and lower it over the starboard bow. Feed the line slowly.
Iz takes the free end of the cable and connects it to an amplitude modulator. He boots the computer, then plugs in a set of headphones to the acoustics system and listens.
Jesus Christ. . .
Rex returns. Microphone's lowered. What are you listening to? Sinatra?
Iz passes him the headset.
Metallic churning sounds resembling high-pitched hydraulic pistons and gears cackle into Rex's ears. What in the fuck is that?
I don't know. SOSUS detected the sounds a few weeks ago. They're originating about a mile below the seafloor. I just assumed it was an oil rig.
Pretty bizarre, Have you told anyone about this?
I filed a report with the Navy and NOAA, but no one has gotten back to me yet.
Too bad we didn't bring the Barnacle.
I didn't know your sub could dive this deep?
Hell, yes. I've taken her to down to six thousand feet in the Bahamas.
Carl climbs topside, his face beet red. Hey, are you guys eating, or what?
9:22 P.M.
A tapestry of stars covers the cloudless night sky.
Carl is leaning on the transom, organizing his tackle box for the third time that day. Rex is below, cleaning up dinner, while Iz listens to the undersea acoustics from the pilothouse.
Manatee, come in.
Go ahead, Ead.
I've been listening on SOSUS. The noises are getting louder and faster.
I know. Almost sounds like a runaway locomotive.
Iz, I think you ought to leave the area. Iz?
The sonic screeech torches his ear canal like a white-hot poker. Iz flings the headphones from his head in agony and drops to one knee, feeling disoriented, the ringing in his ears unbearable.
Rex! Carl! He hears only a muffled echo.
An unearthly green light causes him to look up. The interior of the pilothouse is aglow with an iridescent emerald shimmer radiating from the water.
Rex pulls Iz to his feet. You okay?
Iz nods, his ears still ringing slightly. The two men stumble over the scuba gear and join Carl in the stern, too focused on the brilliant light to notice the smoke coming from the amplitude modulator's sizzling electronics board.
God Almighty. Iz and his two friends stare dumbfounded at the sea, their faces glowing a ghostly green from the ethereal light.
The Manatee is bobbing along the surface of a circular swatch of luminescent sea, at least a mile in diameter. Iz leans overboard, stupefied by the surreal visibility created by the incandescent beacon originating somewhere along the seafloor, some two thousand feet beneath the boat.
Iz, Rex, your hair!
Carl points to their hair, which is standing on end. Rex fingers his ponytail, sticking up like an Indian feather. Iz rubs a palm across his hairy forearm, registering sparks of static electricity.
What the hell's happening? Carl whispers.
I don't know, but we're moving out of here. Iz hurries back to the pilothouse and pushes the engine's POWER button.
Nothing.
He pushes three more times. He checks the radio, then the GPS navigational system.
What's wrong? Carl asks nervously.
Everything's dead. Whatever's glowing down there has short-circuited all of our electronics. Iz turns to see Rex pulling on his wet suit. What are you doing?
I want to see what's down there.
It's too dangerous. There could be radiation.
Then I'll probably be safer in my wet suit than you guys will on board. He fastens the straps of the vest holding his air tank, checks his regulator, then slips on his fins. Carl, my underwater camera's by your feet.
Carl tosses it to him.
Rex-
Iz, thrill-seeking's my hobby. I'll snap a few quick shots and be back on board in five minutes.
Iz and Carl watch helplessly as Rex slips over the side.
Carl, grab an oar. We're moving the boat.
The sea is so visible that Rex feels like he is swimming toward the underwater lights of a deep swimming pool. He hovers six feet below the hull, feeling totally at peace, his body and escaping air bubbles immersed in the soft, emerald green glow.
Movement above his head causes him to look up. My God...
Rex blinks twice, staring incredulously at the grotesque creature that has attached itself lengthwise along the center of the Manatees keel. Thirty-five feet of willowy tentacles flow from a caterpillar-like girth of gelatinous goo. No less than one hundred bell-shaped stomachs traverse the creature's cream-colored, ropelike body, each digestive aperture containing its own hideous mouth and poisonous, fingerlike projections.
Incredible. Rex has never seen a live specimen before, but he knows the creature is an Apolemia, a species of siphonophore. These bizarre life-forms, which can grow upwards of eighty to one hundred feet in length, inhabit only the deepest waters and, as a result, are rarely seen by man.
The light must have chased it to the surface.
He snaps several pictures, remaining at what he hopes is a safe distance from the creature's poisonous stingers, then releases air from his BCD vest and descends.
The surreal lighting gives him the strangest sensation of falling in slow motion. Rex scissor kicks at sixty feet to slow his descent, the pressure building within his ears. He pinches his nose and equalizes, surprised to find the pain getting worse. Then, looking down, he notices something rising at him from the luminescent void.
Rex smiles and extends his arms as thousands of Volkswagen-size air bubbles ascend all around him.
Incredible.
The sinus-cavity pain forces him to refocus. A dull baritone roar fills his ears, causing his face mask to reverberate and tickle his nose.
Rex Simpson stops smiling as he registers a gut-wrenching feeling in the pit of his stomach, a feeling similar to being suspended at the summit of a towering roller coaster just as it begins its downward plunge. The roar gets louder.
It's an underwater earthquake!
Two thousand feet below, an enormous section of the limestone seafloor collapses in upon itself, revealing a gaping tunnel-like aperture. The sea begins swirling as it is sucked into the growing hole, the torrent drawing everything into its plunging vortex.
The emerald green light intensifies, nearly blinding him.
Iz and Carl have managed to paddle the Manatee to the perimeter of the brilliant patch of sea when an unseen force seems to grip the stern, dragging the fishing boat backward. The two men turn, horrified, the sea now churning in a great counterclockwise vortex.
It's a whirlpool! Paddle faster!
Within seconds, the Manatee is caught, moving backward along the outer edge of the maelstrom.
The powerful suction has clamped onto Rex's body with frightening strength, dragging him into deeper waters. He kicks harder, the pressure building in his ears as he struggles to release his weight belt with one hand and grab on to the flailing rubber hose behind his head with the other.
The belt slips off his waist, disappearing in the intense light. Rex fingers the buoyancy-control device and squeezes the handle, inflating his vest.
His descent slows but does not stop.
An unfathomably strong current suddenly wrenches him sideways as if he is being suc
ked out of a plane. He lurches sideways, the current threatening to rip the regulator and mask from his face. He bites down hard and grabs his precious mask, twisting futilely against the unrelenting turbulence.
The sea drops open beneath him. He stares one hundred stories below into the blazing green eye of the vortex, a hole in the sea whose centrifugal force now pins him against the inner wall of its widening, churning funnel.
Rex's heart pounds wildly in fear. The grip on his torso increases, tearing at the Velcro straps, all that prevents the air tank from being torn from his vest. He closes his eyes, sickened, as the whirlpool whips him along its interior wall at a dizzying velocity, all the while sucking him deeper into its mouth.
I'm going to die, oh, God, please help me-
His face mask cracks. A viselike pressure squeezes his face. Blood pours from his nostrils. He gags, then squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can, screaming into his regulator as his eyeballs are pulled away from their optic nerves, bulging out of their socket.
A final scream is obliterated as Rex Simpson's brain implodes.
The monstrous G forces created by the funnel of water have impaled the Manatee's hull against the steep, swirling walls, tearing sections of the boat away with each revolution. Centrifugal force has pinned Carl Reuben's unconscious body against the back of Iz's legs, crushing the terrified biologist against the fiberglass transom.
Iz grips the guardrail in front of him with two hands. The whirlpool is roaring in his ears, its dizzying speed pushing him toward unconsciousness.
He wills his eyes open, focusing them on the source of the green light. Death is minutes away, the thought somehow both frightening and comforting.
The brilliant beacon suddenly dulls. Iz cranes his neck forward, leaning precariously over the transom. He sees a gurgling, tarlike ooze spew forth from an enormous hole within the seafloor. The black substance belches-Iz can smell its sulfurous, rotting stench-then finishes blanketing the emerald glow as it continues to rise within the funnel of water, darkening the still-churning sea.
Iz closes his eyes, forcing himself to think of Edie and Dominique as the maddening torrent pushes the Manatee down into its spiraling vortex.
God, let it be quick.
Carl reaches up. He squeezes Iz's hand as the black ooze rises to greet them.
The boat strikes the thick, tarlike substance and flips, bow over stern, tossing Iz and Carl headfirst into the mouth of the inky maelstrom.
Chapter 12
NOVEMBER 23, 2012
PROGRESO BEACH
YUCATAN PENINSULA
6:45 A.M.
Bill Godwin kisses his sleeping wife on the cheek, grabs his microdisc player, and slips out of the second-floor hotel room of the Holiday Inn.
Another perfect morning.
He descends the aluminum-and-concrete staircase to the pool deck, then exits the fenced-in area and crosses Route 27 to the beach, the morning light forcing him to squint. Stretched out before him are miles of unblemished, pristine white sands and crystal-clear azure coastal waters.
Beautiful...
Brilliant specks of gold are just peeking over a line of clouds on the eastern horizon by the time he reaches the water's edge. A Mexican girl in her teens zigzags along the serene Gulf waters on a purple-and-white wave-runner. Bill admires her figure as he finishes stretching, then adjusts his headphones and sets out at a leisurely pace.
The forty-six-year-old senior marketing analyst at Waterford-Leeman has been jogging three times a week since recovering from his second heart attack six years ago. He figures the morning mile, as his wife calls it, has probably added another ten years to his life while keeping his weight under control for the first time since his college days.
Bill passes another jogger and nods, momentarily picking up his pace. A week's vacation in the Yucatan has done wonders for his blood pressure, but the rich Mexican cuisine has not helped his waistline. He reaches the deserted lifeguard stand, but decides to go a little farther. Five minutes and a half mile later he stops, totally exhausted. Bending over, he removes his running shoes, stuffs the disc player inside one sneaker, then strides into the balmy waters of the Gulf for his morning dip.
Bill wades out until the incoming swells reach his chest. He closes his eyes and relaxes in the warm sea, mentally organizing his day.
Son of a bitch ... Bill jerks sideways, clutching his arm, searching the water for the jellyfish that stung him. What in the hell?
A black, tarlike substance has adhered to his forearm, searing his flesh. Goddam oil companies. He swishes his arm back and forth in the water, unable to wash the ooze away.
The scorching pain increases.
Swearing aloud, Bill turns and takes several strides inland. Blood is pouring from both nostrils by the time he staggers onto the beach. Purplish spots blind his vision. Feeling light-headed and confused, he drops to his knees in the sand.
I need help! Can somebody help me?
An older Mexican couple approaches and stops. Que paso, Senor?
I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish-no hablo. I need a doctor-el doctor.
The man looks at him. El doctor?
A stabbing pain inflames Bill's eyeballs. He cries out in agony and slams his fists into his eyes. Oh, God, my head!
The man looks at his wife. Por favor, llame a un medico. The woman hurries off.
Bill Godwin's eyes feel like they are being skewered. He tears at his hair, then bends over and pukes a bloody, acidic black bile.
The older Mexican is leaning over, futilely attempting to assist the sick American when he pulls back suddenly and grabs his ankle. Hijo de la chingada!
Sizzling vomit has splattered on the man's foot-searing the flesh.
The White House Washington, DC
Ennis Chaney feels the eyes of President Mailer and Pierre Borgia upon him as he reads the two-page report.
No clue about where this toxic crud came from?
It came from the Gulf, probably from one of PEMEX's well fields, Borgia states. What's more important is that a dozen Americans and several hundred Mexicans have died. The currents have confined the black tide to the Yucatan coast, but it's important that we monitor the situation to make sure the ooze doesn't reach American shores. We also feel it important that we maintain a diplomatic presence in Mexico during this environmental crisis.
Meaning?
Chaney notices Mailer's discomfort. Pierre thinks it would be best if you headed the investigation. The drug-trafficking problem has strained our relationship with Mexico. We feel this situation might present us with an opportunity to mend a few fences. The press will be accompanying you-
Chaney sighs. Although his official term as vice president was not to begin until January, Congress had confirmed his appointment him to the vacant seat earlier. The new post, combined with helping his senatorial staff adjust to his leaving the Senate, was wearing him thin. Let me get this straight. We're preparing for a potential conflict in the Persian Gulf, but you want me to head a diplomatic mission to Mexico? Chaney shakes his head. What the hell am I supposed to do, other than offer my condolences? With all due respect, Mr. President, our ambassador to Mexico can handle this.
This is more important than you realize, besides -the President forces a tight smile- who else has the stomach for it. Your work with the CDC during the dengue fever outbreak in Puerto Rico three years ago was a terrific public relations coup.
My participation had nothing to do with public relations.
Borgia slams his briefcase shut. The president of the United States just gave you an order, Mister Vice President. Are you planning on fulfilling your duties, or are you planning on resigning?
The raccoon eyes open wide, shooting daggers at Borgia.
Pierre, would you give us a few minutes.
The Secretary of State tries to stare Chaney down with his one good eye, but he is overmatched.
Pierre, please.
Borgia leaves.
Ennis-
>
Mr. President, if you're asking me to go, then of course, I'll go.
Thank you. .
You don't have to thank me. Just inform Cyclops that Ennis Chaney quits for no one. As far as I'm concerned, that boy just rose to the top of my shit list.
The vice president boards the Sikorsky MH-60 Pave Hawk two hours later. His newly promoted assistant, Dean Disangro, is already on board, along with two Secret Service agents and a half dozen members of the press.
Chaney is angry. Throughout his political career, he has never allowed himself to be used as a public-relations lackey. Party lines and political correctness mean nothing to him. Poverty and violence, education and equality among the races, these are the fights worth fighting. He often imagines himself a modern-day Don Quixote-fighting the windmills, he calls it. That one-eyed Jack may think he can yank my strings, but he just got himself into a street fight with the king of all brawlers.
Dean pours the vice president a cup of decaf. He knows Chaney hates flying, especially in helicopters. You look nervous.
Shut up. What's this I hear about us making a detour?
We're scheduled to stop at Fort Detrick to pick up personnel from USAMRIID before heading on to the Yucatan.
Wonderful. Chaney closes his eyes, gripping the armrest as the Sikorsky leaps into the sky.
Thirteen minutes later, the chopper touches down at the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. From his window, Chaney sees two men supervise the loading of several large crates.
The two men climb aboard. A silver-haired officer introduces himself. Mr. Vice President, Colonel Jim Ruetenik. I'm the military biohazard specialist assigned to your team. This is my associate, Dr. Marvin Teperman, an exobiologist on loan to us from Toronto.
Chaney looks over the short Canadian with the pencil-thin mustache and annoyingly warm smile. What exactly is an exobiologist?
Exobiology concerns the study of life outside our planet. This sludge may contain a strain of infectious virus that we've never seen before. AMRIID thought I might be of some help.
